Rebel Without a Cake (19 page)

“It wasn't just Evangeline who was trying to push them together, Rita.” Ox turned in his seat to face me, and gave me a look full of meaning, like he expected me to put two and two together so he wouldn't have to keep talking.

I tried, but came up blank.

Ox closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. “Miss Frankie wanted the match, too. She wanted Simone Delahunt—O'Neil now—to be her daughter-in-law. She was already planning the wedding, the reception, the whole shebang, when Philippe left for Chicago.”

My stomach lurched and my head began to swim. I'd worked through most of my issues with Philippe, but knowing that Miss Frankie had handpicked someone else to be his wife brought up all the issues I'd struggled with since I was a kid.

“You want the rest?” Ox asked.

“There's more?”

“You know Miss Frankie. She didn't give up hope for a while.”

The margaritas churned again. “How long is ‘a while'?”

“A while,” Ox said. Then his expression softened. Oh God, was that pity I saw? “She did give up eventually and got completely on board with you and Philippe.”

I couldn't make myself ask when that transformation had taken place. Was it before we got married or after? I realized that Ox had been right in the first place. There are some things I didn't want to know.

Miss Frankie told me often that she loved me. That I was like a daughter to her. But I wondered now if she was telling the truth when she said those things. Or was that just her way of manipulating me to stay in New Orleans so she wouldn't be alone?

My stomach flopped hard. I lurched to my feet and clapped both hands over my mouth as I tried to get out of my chair and away from the table. I raced to the ladies' room. Or maybe
raced
is the wrong word. I stumbled over feet and purses and chairs and table legs, but I finally made it through the crowds of happy, laughing people and threw myself through the door. I bounced off a woman who staggered out as I burst in and lunged into a stall just in time.

If I could give one piece of advice, it would be this: Never, ever,
ever
get sick in the ladies' room at a bar.

I spent most of Wednesday swallowing ibuprofen and trying to calm my upset stomach. I also spent it trying to avoid Ox. I wasn't ready to talk to him yet. Actually, I wasn't really ready to talk to anyone, so I buried myself in paperwork, some of which was actually necessary.

Edie left me alone for the most part, except asking me to cover for her when she had to go to the ladies' room. Since she was just a few weeks from delivering a baby, though, her visits ended up being roughly five minutes apart. While she was gone, I fielded a few calls and played some solitaire on her computer, and I thought a lot about the cake for the Belle Lune Ball.

The ball would take place in January, so I wanted to avoid flavors too closely associated with the holidays, such as spice or chocolate-peppermint. Red velvet, though a traditional favorite in the South, would be both too ordinary and much too heavy for what I wanted. I wanted the flavor, filling, and icing to match well with the decorations, which meant they should be light and bright—but summery, citrusy flavors (like Aunt Margaret's pea-pickin' cake) would be out of place in the winter.

It may have looked like I was killing time, but I was actually very busy. This is why creative people often get a bum rap. We spend a lot of time in our heads thinking, planning, considering ideas, and tossing out the obviously bad ones before we ever take a step that someone else can see. Simone O'Neil had seemed enthusiastic about the cake design I'd sketched for her the day before, but until I had flavors in mind, I couldn't even begin to start planning in earnest.

During what was surely Edie's two-hundredth visit to the bathroom, while I was focused on a winning hand of solitaire, the front door opened and a large pot of Shasta daisies walked through it. We don't take walk-in clients at Zydeco, so seeing something walk through the door unannounced would have been unusual even if it hadn't been a pot of flowers.

The flowers settled on Edie's desk, and River appeared from behind them. He's a good-looking guy with short dark hair and a friendly smile. Sometimes he wears glasses. Sometimes he doesn't. He was wearing them today, and I thought they gave him a sincere look.

Upon first meeting, you'd never guess that he was Sparkle's brother. She's dark and goth and chronically annoyed by the world. He's the complete opposite. But then, to hear them talk about their childhood in the commune and their mother's utter lack of concern over details like the names of the men she'd slept with, there was a chance they weren't actually related by blood. Neither of them had any proof that the woman who'd raised them was actually their biological mother, and apparently, she'd been a bit vague on that point as well. Absent a rash of DNA tests, I didn't think anyone would ever know for sure.

River looked disappointed that I wasn't Edie. He nodded toward the megasized drink cup beside the computer and asked, “Is she in?”

I leaned over to get a better look at the flowers. The pot was ceramic and whimsical—pink with green polka dots and a handle that made it look like a giant teacup. I liked it, but I couldn't predict Edie's reaction. “She's here, just away from her desk for a minute. You're welcome to wait.”

He glanced around nervously and then sat. “How's she doing?”

“You haven't talked to her?”

“I've tried. Believe me, I've tried. She won't answer my calls, won't reply to my texts, and won't respond to any of the messages I've left. I'm running out of ideas. If the flowers don't work, it may be the end of the road for me.”

I gave him a noncommittal smile—one that I hoped conveyed,
I understand but I won't get involved
, then turned back toward the computer. “Well, let's hope the flowers work.”

Full of nervous energy, River stood and took a couple of steps toward the front door. I pretended not to watch as he hesitated, pivoted on the balls of his feet, and strode back to the chair he'd just vacated. “She's driving me nuts, you know.”

I wanted to welcome him to my world, but I thought that might sound rude so I stated the obvious instead. “She's eight months pregnant.”

“It's more than that.” He sat on the edge of his seat and leaned forward. “I thought she and I had a connection, you know? I mean, that night we met at the Dizzy Duke, we just . . . clicked. I had no idea about the baby until I came back to the States. If I'd known . . .”

He looked so miserable I decided to break my noninterference rule, just a little. “I know. She told me. Which means
she
knows that. Edie never expected you to come back at all, and she had absolutely no idea you were Sparkle's brother. I think it threw her for a major loop. She's still trying to absorb it.”

“Yeah, well, that makes two of us. I had no idea she worked with my sister either, but I don't consider it a disaster. She does.”

I abandoned my computer game and linked my hands together on the desk. “Would it have made a difference? If you had known who she was, I mean. Would you have done things differently?”

He rubbed his neck and hung his head. “Yes. No.” His head came up again. “I don't know. Maybe. But I didn't know, and I didn't do things differently. And neither did she, by the way. So now this is the hand we've been dealt and we need to accept it. Why is she acting like I did something horrible to her?”

“I don't think that's what she's feeling,” I said. I wondered how much to share, but I didn't have a lot to work with. Edie doesn't confide much. Also, I'm new at this BFF thing. So while I didn't want to cross the line, I wasn't even sure where the line here was.

“I don't think she blames you for getting her pregnant,” I said. “That would be silly. It takes two. I think she's scared to death that you won't be there for her and the baby down the road when things get tough.”

“I've told her a million times that I'll be there. That's my kid she's carrying.”

“Not necessarily a slam-dunk argument,” I said. “Sharing DNA with a child doesn't automatically qualify someone for Father of the Year.”

“You don't have to tell me,” River said with a humorless laugh. “I know what it's like to grow up without a dad. I know what it's like to wonder who your dad is and whether he even knows you exist. There's no way in hell I want my kid to go through that.”

“For what it's worth, I believe you. And I'm a pretty hard sell. But Edie's the one with the baby kicking her insides all hours of the night.” I heard a door open down the hall so I lowered my voice and gave him my best counsel. “Just hang in there. It takes time to build trust. If you don't give up, eventually she'll realize that you mean what you say.”

Edie waddled back into the reception area, saw River sitting there and the flowers on her desk, and burst into tears. “What are you doing here?” she demanded. “What is
this
?”

He stood uncertainly. “I came to see you. We need to talk.”

That was my cue to vamoose, so I beat a hasty retreat into my office and closed the door to give them some privacy. I'd briefly considered leaving the door open a crack so I could hear what was going on, but decided that would be crass.

I went back to work, opening a new game of solitaire and trying to remember what I'd been thinking about when River arrived. Before I even found the first ace, the phone rang. Not wanting the call to give Edie an excuse to avoid talking to River, I snagged the phone myself.

“Ms. Lucero? That you? Deputy Georgie Tucker here. You remember me from the Terrebonne Parrish Sheriff's Department?”

Even though I'd given her my number, she was still the last person I'd expected to hear from while I was at work. “Of course I remember. Are you calling with news about the case? Have you figured out who killed Silas Laroche?” I really hoped she would say yes, and that it was anyone except Bernice's cousin Eskil. I couldn't keep running back and forth to Baie Rebelle, and I had a feeling that's exactly what I'd be doing as long as Miss Frankie and Bernice were there.

Not that I was ready to see Miss Frankie. I was still working out how I felt about knowing she'd handpicked another woman to be Philippe's wife, and had apparently opposed Philippe's decision to choose me instead.

“Not yet, I'm afraid,” Georgie said. “We're working on it, though.”

“Do you have any leads? Were you able to identify any fingerprints on that toilet tank lid?”

“We have a few leads, but honestly not many. No usable prints on the murder weapon, but we're not letting that get us down. Listen, the reason I called is that I need to get an official statement from you. I should've taken care of that while you were here, but I thought I had what I needed. Turns out, I was wrong.”

I do my best to cooperate with the police, especially when they're not accusing me of anything, and I was feeling especially cooperative that morning. “No problem. Do you want to do it now or make an appointment to talk later?” I was good either way. I mean, I did have an important solitaire game going, but I could put that off to do my civic duty.

“I wish I could do it over the phone,” Georgie said, “but Sheriff Argyle is insisting that I get your statement in person, complete with original signature.”

“Oh.” My eagerness to cooperate evaporated, but I saw nothing wrong with negotiating. “Any chance you could come to New Orleans, or do I need to go all the way back to Baie Rebelle? Or could we split the difference and do this in Houma?”

“Baie Rebelle, if you don't mind. I'll be down there all day tomorrow so we could meet up whenever it's good for you.”

I did mind, but what was the point of saying so? I didn't want to make a fuss about Georgie's request and look as if I had something to hide. “Okay. I'll drive down in the morning. Where should I meet you?”

“You know the Gator Pit? It's a bar in town.”

“The one next to T-Rex's? Yeah, I know it.”

“It opens at eleven for lunch. How about we meet then? Is that okay with you?”

I said I'd see her then and hung up the phone. This would be my third trip to Baie Rebelle in less than a week. Maybe I should think about starting a shuttle service. It might be a great way to supplement my income.

*   *   *

I pulled up in front of the Gator Pit right on time on Thursday morning. I didn't see Georgie's patrol car, but I trusted that she'd be there soon. With a few minutes to kill, I decided to wait inside so I could see how the locals lived. I almost changed my mind when I opened the door, but by then I'd already committed to the adventure and I like to follow through with what I start.

The Gator Pit was a small dark room with a short bar on one wall and six small round tables for customers. Cheap accordion-pleated paper jack-o'-lanterns and bats drooped on the tables, and a couple of dusty plastic ghosts bobbed on fishing line overhead. All the tables were empty, but a couple of bearded men sat at the bar. They were so dirty and hairy I thought they could have passed for the rougarou. The fact that they were sharing hunting stories with a long-haired bartender did little to reassure me.

Several dim lights hung from wooden ceiling beams, but they barely chased away the gloom. The door shut behind me and I felt my way toward one of the tables.

As soon as I sat down, a middle-aged woman with long curly hair held back with a headband tossed a napkin on the table in front of me. A pair of new-looking jeans stretched across her broad hips, and a too-small T-shirt hugged every curve above her waist and showed an impressive cleavage. “What can I get you, hon?”

“Diet Pepsi?” I said hopefully.

“Diet Coke okay?”

“That's fine. Thanks.”

“You're new around here, aren't you?”

I gave her a second look, wondering if I'd seen her before. She didn't look familiar, so I shrugged and shook my head. “Just visiting.”

Both hunters glanced at me and the waitress asked, “Oh? You have folks around here?”

People in small towns can be friendly, but they can also be suspicious of strangers. Folks in the swamps of Louisiana are generally considered more suspicious than most. Under normal circumstances, establishing my tenuous connection to the Percifields might have been smart, but two things stopped me. First, I assumed that the murder of Silas Laroche was front and center in everyone's mind; and second, I wasn't sure I wanted these potential suspects to know that I was the one who'd found the body—at least not while I was alone.

I smiled and shook my head. “No relatives, I'm afraid.”

They all waited expectantly, as if my next move was to offer my family history.

I tried not to look nervous and turned the tables on her. “Have you lived here long?”

“All my life.” Her answer was cool and crisp. “Sure I can't get you anything else?”

I assured her that I would be fine with the soda and settled back to wait for Georgie. Five minutes later, I realized this was going to be a long wait. Two more customers wandered in. One of the originals at the bar wandered out. Those were the highlights.